


And the distortions of ingrown virginity

by be_a_rebel



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - Bennett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_a_rebel/pseuds/be_a_rebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes I barely can. There are days....." You can picture those days, him in the shower, cold water turned to full, fingers stabbing into cold tile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the distortions of ingrown virginity

Trotting. It's definitely trotting. The way his fingers shift and merge, nimble.  
  
Dakin is half asleep on the couch, legs thrown over the side, smug smile grossly painted, chin sinking into his blazer.  
  
You want him all the same, even when he's drunk and rather pathetic.  
  
Lockwood added the pathetic bit. He's by your feet somewhere.   
  
The rest aren't here. They're tucked away in bed, not plodding their way through your father's collection, old and musky.  
  
Strong.  
  
Like those fingers. Scripps hasn't had much, just a brief taste and he's missed that note, he has, and he knows it too, you can tell by the short grimace and the split second halt before he's off again, starter pistol morose.  
  
Lockwood's glass is on the ground, steeped in centuries old carpet and you hope none of them has spilt anything, because your mother has a sharp eye and if you're caught, by God, if you're caught....  
  
You shiver at the prospect.  
  
You are going to be caught of course, but you have a feeling your father will simply grin and pat you on your shoulder, glad his son is normal.  
  
Normal. What a fucking word. What a fucking travesty. With fucking Dakin spread over your couch, which is probably as old as the damn scotch you're all pouring down your throat.  
  
Missed another note. He catches your eye and there's that smile, Scripps. At least he talks to you. You smile back and he grins broad and you both glance at Dakin who is out, endearing almost.  
  
God, you make self-loathing into an art form. Loathing you should be a religion, one practised by all homosex-uals, like Dakin says the word, smarting and precise, crowding it all to old, fat fucks who grope their students.  
  
You squeeze your eyes shut. You're drunk. And pathetic.  
  
And you want. You want what exactly? Dakin perhaps but you know, somewhere in the distant crevices of your denying mind that you're never going to get him, that if he does have a brief scramble with someone of the same sex, it won't be you, it'll never be you. It'll be someone older, more confident, someone who challenges Dakin instead of following him around, eager and panting.  
  
You are fucked.  
  
Another note goes and this time you sit up and blink, because surely Scripps is missing on purpose.  
  
The music's stopped and Scripps is looking out the window, or at the glass or something else, the thing you all never saw. You want to speak but it doesn't seem wise to, doesn't seem right to.  
  
He looks back, right at you and you are really fucked up, because that crinkle of his eyes makes you just a little fucking crazy. Your glass is heavy in the palm of your hand and you swing it back, throat dry and hot and of course some of it dribbles down your chin and on to your shirt as you scramble off the chair and hunt for something to wipe it off.  
  
There's a handkerchief in front of your eyes and Scripps is laughing, loud and hard and honest and his hands are by his side, stallions at rest.  
  
Lockwood stirs at your feet and mutters something incomprehensible. You both look down and then up again and there's that comic moment, the one that makes you part of this group, makes it worth to stick around even when Dakin is too bright, too warm and keeping your hands off is near impossible, cherry pie on the kitchen table when you were eight and no one was around.  
  
You both stumble out of the room, towards the kitchen and you're glad Scripps' mind is working like your own. There's chocolate cake somewhere, you're certain, there always is some in this house, as if sugar can compensate for something that's eternally missing.  
  
Scripps is sniggering against his palm even though the house is empty except for all of you. You switch the light on and sure enough, cake.  
  
He's finding plates behind you and soon you're seated the table, eating in silence. You don't watch him.   
  
He swings up and seats himself on the counter while you pile the dishes into the sink. He's leaning against the cabinet, eyes closed, fingers braced over his knees. You contemplate what it would be like to step closer, right there and touch him. It would be so easy and you're pretty sure he won't kill you for it, or even punch you.  
  
He'll probably even get over it and be friends again, because it's Scripps and you're Posner. And he isn't Dakin, but that doesn't stop him from existing.  
  
He opens his eyes and smiles, small and curious and you swallow hard and for once are thankful you're such a coward.  
  
He looks confused and slides down, and his knees are pressed against yours and he's unimaginably close and it's one kiss and might help you move on or move around him, anything, maybe stop you from wanting Dakin and stop you from watching his hands, thundering across race tracks.  
  
Stop you from being you. Not from being a homosexual, but being you, being needy you.  
  
Scripps opens his mouth to speak, brow drawn together and you move back, chair right in the middle of your back and you wince and Scripps grabs your elbow, half amused, half concerned.  
  
You stare at his fingers on you and think of other places they could be and you can't help swallowing. Damn scotch.  
  
He blinks at you and doesn't get it, don't get it, please don't get it.  
  
He doesn't. Thank the merciful heavens. Someone finally heard you.   
  
He lets go slowly and moves back.  
  
You glance at the door leading to the living room. You turn back and he's looking, looking and you don't know what that means. You're not sure you want to.  
  
You try not to think of sex when the other boys are around much, especially not Dakin, because contrary to general opinion, it really isn't possible to run to the lavatory for quick wanks between lessons.  
  
It's hard to think of anything else now, what with Scripps standing before you with open collar and scotch and chocolate on his breath.  
  
You understand the generics but you have no real experience. It's not as if you have _no_ experience (Jamie, at 12, she just went for it, saying she wanted it out of the way and you were as good as any. This was before the realisation of wanting men rather than women.)  
  
Besides, Scripps doesn't have sex. He doesn't even wank, if what Dakin whispered to Lockwood in the gym was true.  
  
If that's true, he should technically come the second your palm touches his crotch.  
  
You know, unless he punches you. Which he will. For that he'll punch you.  
  
You lick your lips and Scripps shifts. The counter must be digging into his back. You look at him again, and maybe more than a little scotch.  
  
Your tongue feels like a ship has landed on it and sunk anchor. You wonder what you'd do if Dakin was here and don't even go there, not with Scripps here, open eyed and confused.  
  
Fuck. Fuckity-fuck. This is what Hector should have given you lessons about.  
  
Now that's a disturbing thought.  
  
"You've been missing notes."  
  
Right.  
  
"Have I?"  
  
"You usually don't."  
  
"I'm not God Pos."  
  
"Then what makes you think you can stay celibate? If you're not him I mean. If you're like the rest of us. How can you not.."  
  
You trail off, not wanting to think of him alone in bed, sheets kicked off, boxers around his knees, somehow you have a feeling he sleeps in boxers.  
  
Of course, by trying not to think of it, you are in effect, thinking of it.  
  
He hasn't answered.  
  
You bite your lip, carefully wording an apology.  
  
"Sometimes I barely can. There are days....." You can picture those days, him in the shower, cold water turned to full, fingers stabbing into cold tile.  
  
Christ. Christ, who you don't follow, but Scripps does.  
  
You want to go to your knees for him. Like this, he might not say no.  
  
"I could never do it." He smiles, forlorn and tired. Your hands are tapping a rhythm on the back of the chair and you're calculating how quickly you can get him off.  
  
You look up and he must see some of it because his eyes grow, impossibly and there's that catch, that swallow, that flash. You know he won't make the first move, and you can't expect him to, he's held on to this celibacy thing with both hands for far too long and he can't be what you are and continue to march to the tune of his own unique banner. This will be the end of him, at least the him that exists now.  
  
You're a selfish bastard. But he's Scripps. And he's been there. And he always will, and you need him whole.  
  
He sees that too and sags, topples and you close your eyes, willing Lockwood and Dakin to get their arses up.  
  
It stays quiet. He's smiling at you again, understanding, regretful yet thankful. Curious mixture.  
  
Completely Scripps.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Auden's poem 'Petition'.


End file.
